


For the Dreaming

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2471096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	For the Dreaming

The first time, he had barely appeared to be real. It was just past midnight and the stifling stillness was broken only by the gleam of moonlight off white eyes, cold and distant as stars. It was instinct now, a base reaction that barely registered in his mind; he tried to stand, to kneel, but succeeded only in stumbling over his hands and feet, retreating to cower in a dark corner of the pen, awaiting the inevitable pain.

 

It was wrong to shirk from his master. Ramsay would want to see him he knew, and he might have been able to summon the strength to crawl forward if not for the subtle sense of something _wrong_.

 

Even before his eyes had adjusted to the shifting light, he knew the nearly silent footsteps couldn’t belong to Ramsay- Ramsay would’ve spoken already, surely, or would have dragged him from the corner to run his eyes, his hands, over his fragile form.

 

A shadow materialized from the thick blackness of the night, barely visible, but barely was enough. Normally delighted to greet their master, the dogs watched warily this intruder with his air of dangerous nonchalance, gaunt lines of a familiar frame etched in silver, ghostlike in the dead hours of the early morning, hard lines and dark clothes made ethereal, some sort of apparition.

 

“Theon Greyjoy” Detached and devoid of emotion, his voice matched the stone-glittering eyes, ice over steel; the name slipped like a knife through his- reek’s, not Theon’s- ribs, mercilessly tearing the scabs off half-healed old wounds, and they were festering.

(Although, if Roose Bolton, the only man from whom Ramsay, his own master, would take orders from wanted him to be Theon….

And who was he to disobey?)

To remind himself of Theon was to drag a carcass out of the grave, tearing open raw scars and sealed cuts. His entire being rejected it, or tried to, but Reek- Theon- was nothing if not loyal. Hadn’t that been one of his first lessons?

 

For tonight, he would endure the agony of remembering.

For Roose, he could- he would- be Theon Greyjoy.

_As my lord commands_

“Theon Greyjoy is dead” Ramsay had whispered into his ear one night, pressed flush against Reek’s back, running his thick fingers over crude whip-wounds, each hard caress an agony as his jagged- no, sharpened- fingernails raked bloodlines down his arms and back and chest, marking him, claiming him, shaping him.

“Reek, reek,” (sometimes “my reek” if he was feeling particularly possessive) Ramsay had gasped and growled and spat, in anger and in lust; he had carved the name into his skin again and again, the puckered scars across his protruding collarbones, ravaged skin and soul until he had known one name and one name only.

  
Theon had been a man. Reek was something like an animal (less than an animal- the dogs got fed more than him, and respected almost), and he fingered the chafing leather collar encrusted with blood that Ramsay had given him. The present of a pet; there was a flayed man somewhere on it, and Ramsay’s name and not his own.

 

“I will call you by your name” said Ramsay as he peeled the skin from Reek’s fingers and reveled in his screams, unearthly, inhuman.

Said Roose Bolton as he stepped forward, the words somehow sharper without the overwrought cruelty, the blunt, insistent _wanting_ of Ramsay’s husky voice. Theon dared not to raise his head to look Roose in the eyes (Ramsay’s eyes were dangerous- Roose’s were sharp knives, deadly) but Roose’s presence, his closeness, was palpable and Theon braced himself for Roose’s reaction to Theon’s cowering form, body desecrated and degenerated, lying almost prostrate on the ground.

 

Roose had made his way to the kennels in the dark and with no light but the waning moon, watched Balon’s last son and heir tremble before him in filthy rags, muttering under his breath.

 

He hadn’t expected Roose to speak; neither Theon nor Reek had ever heard the man’s voice rise above a whisper and he knew from sitting by Ramsay’s side during his chastisements (Roose had barely deigned him worthy of note, though theon- no, it had been Reek- hadn’t been able to tear his gaze from Roose’s eyes, harsher than fury, somehow outstripping Ramsay’s wildfire glare) that Roose preferred silence.

There was no pity, no disgust in his voice as there was in the sidelong glances of terrified servants who had the misfortune to cross Theon’s path when Ramsay led him from kennel to bedchamber and back again the next morning.

 

Ramsay’s heat was inescapable, even his words burned with feverish intensity. Roose was cold and his words were dripping ice

_Like a summer snow_

The snapping frost before dawn on a late summer morning…

_You remember the summer snows_

“Stand, Theon” said Roose, and that was all. But he used his name again. The name he had told Reek- told THEON he ought to have.

And Theon- THEON, the name sounded strange in his mind, foreign and somehow wrong, obeyed without question, or tried to.

Eyes still focused intensely on the ground before him, Theon’s legs swiveled stiffly into position, every joint groaning as he unfolded and rose, a slow and painful process.

 

Ramsay liked him at knee-level, hip-level, head high enough for him to shove it down with one hand or twine his fingers in the brittle white hair; Ramsay liked him sprawled out on his bed or pressed against a wall, his own bulk supporting Theon’s weight with ease. He broke down Theon’s body and his mind until he had to lean heavily against Ramsay’s shoulder, he starved and scarred and beat him until he could no longer stand on his own, dissolved his pride until he whispered a raspy gratitude in Ramsay’s ear when he carried Theon like an infant up the staircase to his chambers.

 

Ramsay had craved Theon’s weakness, craved the moments when Theon crumbled and broke. He wanted Theon to be his own, to belong to no one else- not even himself- and so with his knives (and his words) he developed in Theon a complete and total dependence upon his master.

 

And he lived for it. Theon saw it in the cruel curve of his smirk and the burning fire in his eyes, naked and baring his sick lust.

“They would kill you. They don’t want you now that you’re disgusting, now that you’re weak”  
Theon had to choke out a heartfelt thanks- Ramsay wanted him to respond, needed his affirmation as much as he needed the physical presence of his body.

Ramsay _wanted_ Theon to shake , to crawl to him of his own volition, to willingly curl up in his lap (although it made Theon- even Reek- sick to his stomach) and when he fell, when he couldn’t find the strength to crawl or crouch, when he _couldn’t_ (or when he _wouldn’t_ , Ramsay forced him to the ground.

 

Roose, when Theon stumbled, placed one hand on his waist to steady him, the other reached for his hand and pulled him to his feet with ease.

_Like a child._

Roose’s strength defied his age as easily as his face did, it seemed, or Theon was lighter than he’d thought.   
Either way, Roose’s hands- and their strength- were more than welcome.

Roose’s hands were placed softly on Theon’s body, so gently that were the man in question anyone other than Roose Bolton, he would’ve labeled it hesitance. Perhaps it was nothing more than the stark contrast between this and the harsh caresses in Ramsay’s arms that left a pattern of bruises on his neck, his back his face. Perhaps it was how Roose’s swift gesture had closed the gap between their bodies so that they were mere inches apart, though Theon couldn’t discern the sound of Roose’s heart over his ragged breathing, the way he had been able to do with Ramsay.

_His bastard’s blood…_

Whatever the reason, Theon was struck by the intimacy of their position, able to see the delicate grip Roose still had on his waist from his stoop-shouldered, head-ducked position. He was almost groveling while standing, cringing in anticipation of a blow that he was beginning to suspect would never come.

Somewhere in his mind he knew direct physical violence was rarely Roose’s inclination, but the fear was deeply embedded and though they were not Ramsay’s, the eyes scared him. He was shorter than Roose, or maybe that was just because his head was still bowed, but the flayed man clasp on Roose’s chest fastening his cloak shone just enough to remind Theon of who was holding him, and how easily the hand on his back could sprout a knife.

For a half second he wondered if Roose had held Robb’s bleeding body this way, so close to his, hands placed along his hips and shoulders.

Had Roose cradled him when he died, like this? Steadied him as he drew his last breath?  
 _Like a lover._

And did he speak to him- did he whisper?

 

Theon wasn’t sure if he wanted to know- or if he already knew- but somehow he felt closer to Robb, having known now the touch of Roose’s hands on his shoulders, his hips, his lower back.

Roose’s hands…

It was hard not to focus on them, so different from Ramsay’s, indicative of his noble birth and of the subtle strength with which he now supported Theon (with which he had held a knife to end the war in the North).

 

Roose’s fingers were long and tapered, wrapping easily around half of Theon’s skeletal frame, thin and white like bones resting in the gap between the rough protrusion’s of Theon’s ribs and hips, captivatingly pale and bare. Both his hands rested directly on Theon’s skin, having pushed aside the deteriorating rags, and a slight shiver ran down Theon’s spine as Roose’s hand slid off his shoulder. When the tips of his nails touched Theon’s skin they whispered over the bruised flesh, leaving no mark. Roose would not claim him.

 

The movement was so gentle Theon’s nerves barely registered it at first, though his body soon remembered the correct response to a soft touch.

_Even his hands don’t speak above a whisper._

Theon’s heartbeat quickened and he inhaled sharply as Roose lifted his chin delicately with those long fingers, forcing their eyes to meet.

 

Theon was still several inches shorter than him but he could see the cut of high cheekbones in an angular face, a nobleman’s face, an ageless face. His lips were thin and drawn tight and his hair was so dark it disappeared into the shadows behind them. Features fine and exact, aquiline and spare, Roose Bolton was somewhere between elegant and gaunt.

_Almost haunting_

“A prince need not bow to a lord” Roose murmured, his words almost inaudible over the pounding of Theon’s heart.

“Yes, my lord” Theon’s throat ached and it was somehow drier than it had been; the words were strange in his mouth as the name was/is/had been in his mind and he feared he had made a mistake.

Roose did not respond, verbally.   
How long had it been since he had spoken?

 

The twitch of Roose’s mouth (thin lips, still drawn tight) something that might have been a smirk, was masked by the immutable stillness of his eyes.

If Ramsay’s eyes were dirty ice, Roose’s were finely cut diamond, scintillating and hard and radiating a silent power. They were stars, cold and distant, completely detached from the mundane affairs of the mortal world.  Roose was not _above_ \- he was _beyond_ , apart.

Every time his eyes met Roose Bolton’s, Theon had to look away, had to catch his breath.

This was what the Starks of the age of heroes had seen in the eyes of Roose’s ancestors. Colorless, pale, all the pitiless cruelties of winter concentrated, distilled and purified into something harsher.

it was a wonder they had ever won the North.

 

Theon did not think himself capable of shame after the humiliation he suffered at Ramsay’s hands- a literal dehumanization, separation of Theon from himself, and certainly from whatever pride he’d once had. He had begged for him and moaned for him, had been invaded and ruined by him, he had suffered the utmost disgrace at Ramsay’s hands.

And he did not think, after a history of suffering (how long had it been, truly, since Ramsay first took the knife in his hands. Or maybe it’d begun at Winterfell) that he would be humbled by the very presence of Roose Bolton.

Roose was embarrassingly thorough, silent and focused, determined. Not once did he lift his scrutinizing gaze from Theon, examining every inch of his ruined form, lingering over the bruises and half-healed festering wounds. On the mass of scar tissue between his legs. Theon’s face burned but Roose tilted his chin up- Theon could not bow his head in his presence, it would seem.

His gaze was penetrating and merciless as he examined the body before him for what felt like an age, cutting through the layers of filth and decay to judge what remained of Theon Greyjoy’s soul.

 

“A naked man has few secrets, a flayed man has none” Ramsay had sneered once, a crude bastardization of the phrase Theon had heard whispered by Roose once before, in another life. It had sounded wrong in his voice, the subtleties as always lost on him and Theon would have laughed if he hadn’t been writhing with blinding pain.

 

_The son is the shadow of the father_

Ramsay was skilled with a knife, to be sure, but Roose could strip Theon to the bone with little more than a look. After –a month? A year? Ten?- of numbing tortures and blunted nerves, he stood in front of Roose Bolton and shook with fear, stripped of his pride, stripped of his skin.

_and his name._

Roose could feel his trembling, he was sure, the weakness trapped inside and he almost winced.

This time Roose didn’t have to lift Theon’s face to his eyes, but though the action was autonomous the result was the same. Theon stared into the unfathomable coldness, and after a breath, he looked away, burning.

 

Roose spoke as if from far away.

“You are the son of a king, Theon Greyjoy, and I need you as you were- a prince, strong as iron, proud as the sea. The kraken’s last boy.”

The sea- yes, he had had a family once, besides the wolves. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the sound of waves against stone. The memory hurt, and why?

 

Thinking of the sea brought salt tears and they hovered at the corners of his eyes. He would not cry here, not expose himself even more to this man, with his eyes beneath his skin, his fingers in the spaces between his bones.

But Balon’s son was dead, hadn’t Ramsay told him. Etched into his mind, he remembered the words- he had had to repeat them, and they came so easily, now to his tongue- had he forgotten that they were wrong?

Roose caught the tears as they fell from Theon’s eyes, lifting a hand to Theon’s face and brushing them away, and Theon wasn’t sure if he imagined how his fingers lingerd for just a second on the dark skin beneath his eyes. Theon did not flinch, did not react except to blink once, after Roose had pulled his hand back, and somehow it felt like more.

 

Theon trusted Roose, somehow, more than Ramsay though he knew he shouldn’t though it didn’t make sense (remember the last prince Roose held in his arms, remember the knife inside him).

He was Theon for now because Roose wanted him to be, but it didn’t make sense because-

  
Theon opened his mouth to speak- to protest, to affirm, he hadn’t yet decided when Roose silenced him with a look that implied Theon’s longevity was directly tied to his usefulness, which was to be determined by Roose.

“I do not need my bastard’s replacement plaything”

“-oh yes, there was a Reek before you, although I suspect he made you forget that” he added sardonically, after seeing Theon’s reaction to his initial phrase. It was intentionally shocking, he could see, but the words couldn’t be parsed, the sentence had no meaning.

_Another Reek…_

No meaning besides the one Theon refused to consider.

In another life- Theon struggled to remember, another Reek, but there had only ever been one (him, the only). Another Reek, perhaps while he was rotting in a cell, to sate his master while he was punished. His chest burned with something approximating a twisted jealousy; had Ramsay lied to him when he had called him his only, curled around his delicate form on one of the less painful nights?

And it hurt to think about Ramsay with someone else, as though even the bare minimum of intimacy he had shown Theon, the sparse kindness, was not his own.

If he had not even that, he had nothing.

 

“Reek,” he’d whispered, “my Reek” and with his eyes closed Theon could almost enjoy Ramsay’s hand carding through his hair, whispered expressions of what for Ramsay served as sentiment, the burning warmth of his body that, for once, stopped his shivering.

He had[n’t] meant that- he had, hadn’t he?

It was all too much too fast and Theon took a step backwards, or tried to, tripping over his mangled feet, but Roose held him in place like a vise, still somehow leaving no marks on his skin.

 

He was not used to this, and he knew Roose Bolton couldn’t care, not genuinely- if he closed his eyes, again, the touch _meant_ something. This was manipulation of the highest degree, playing on his most desperate wants and weaknesses, but Theon was nothing if not weak.

 

“Regrettably, it seems he has left more of an… impact on you than I had assumed” Roose traced an X-shaped scar on Theon’s shoulder with a single finger as he whispered, following deeply etched lines to a bruise on his collarbone, a bite mark still fresh with blood on his neck.

His hands were cold, his intentions, Theon knew, nothing more than clinical, but he reveled in the gentle caress of Roose’s fingers on his neck, tracing the outlines of his bones and the edges of his skin, soft and fragile as his voice. Barely a murmur, but somehow all the more enthralling for that. It was too close to tenderness and Theon leaned in to the touch, craving the intimacy of physical contact, so unfamiliar when not coupled with pain.

 

Gods, it had been so _long_ , oh Ramsay had touched him, had wanted him, but Roose’s dispassionate hands elicited emotions he thought he had lost.   
Genuine feeling, a sense of realness, like lightning- the feeling of Roose’s hands on his neck, almost stroking it, curling around to where his shoulders met just below the base of his neck like ice on his skin but inside him, burning.

He sighed under his breath, an automatic and hushed sound, but Roose’s ears were sharp and he gave Theon a sidelong glance, running his fingers across the edge of his chin in a cursory stroke, tilting his face up once more and taking it in his hands.

 

The tips of his nails brushed Theon’s hairline and their noses almost touched, albeit at different angles.

Theon had the feeling Roose wasn’t normally a tactile man; he was doing this for Theon’s benefit, but he couldn’t fathom yet why, heart racing still from Roose’s touch, from the proximity of his person. The air between them was charged, Roose’s eyes flashing- with what? Theon was disoriented, the world around him spun and Roose’s face was the center, unchanging.

Roose was barely a breath from Theon. With the slightest movement, Theon thought-

_Touch him._

He yearned for it, and couldn’t think about why right now, not when Roose had adjusted the angle of his face so Theon couldn’t escape his breathtaking Bolton eyes.

Roose stood over him still, slightly, and Theon could almost see him bending down-

Legs shaking, Theon stood on his toes, leaned ever so slightly forward-

“I think,” Roose said as he effortlessly pressed theon’s feet back to the ground, no change in his inscrutable features.

“That perhaps you have forgotten what it means to be a prince.

Come, I will make you one again.”


End file.
